Civil War, Civil Sin
by lilien passe
Summary: Memories of nations torn asunder. A collection of one-shots centering around civil war, including England, America, Spain, France, Japan and Russia.
1. Chapter 1: By Any Other Name

-Author's Notes-

Good 'ol history class. Never thought it would come in handy.

As soon as I learned about APH, I immediately thought, "How the hell to civil wars work, then? Do they just start randomly kicking the ever loving bejeezus out of themselves?"

Needless to say, the idea needed a bit more finesse.

Part 1. The War of the Roses is not only one of the more confusing historical events I've had shoved down my throat, but also potentially one of the coolest. So I was torn. But I tried to make it work.

Warnings: Naughty language, potentially violent imagery, massively twisted historical and literary events, and more angst than you can shake a stick at.

Disclaimer: If you're thinking this is real history, I suggest you double check and make sure that your country didn't spontaneously turn into a hot dude while you weren't looking. Also, I don't own nothin'.

Each review is like a little treasure of awesome.

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Civil War, Civil Sin

_Part 1: By Any Other Name_

Arthur stood on the edge of the dock, rotting timbers creaking beneath his feet, rancid air blowing his hair back off his face. He took one last weakened bite of his bread before cocking his arm back and heaving the rest out towards the Thames as far as he could. Weary eyes watched the remnants splash into the water, arms crossed painfully over feverish skin.

Behind him, the city festered with disease and rebellion, as Richard's army soured the area for Henry. Arthur snorted, and glanced behind him towards the direction of St Albans. He knew where the mad king was – abandoned by his men, raving in the throes of lunacy, with an arrow wound lanced into his neck. Emerald eyes flickered down towards the sluggishly flowing water, clogged with disease and filth. They'll have found Henry by now, Arthur mused, kicking a few nearby stones into the murky water, but nothing would come of it.

Somerset and Northumberland were dead. York had prevailed. For now. The skirmish had come as a shock to all, himself included. But Arthur knew someone would no doubt write about this – would engrave into fiction what had seemed so sudden in life.

But England could care less. He was reeling from plague, from a sickness that continued to ravage his body, his people. And he knew that no matter who claimed him as their own, they would not be immune to what no one could see. The Plantagenet House would fall, others would rise, but for now nothing would come of it.

Arthur closed his eyes, felt the breeze tugging at his thinned hair, and longed for the sea.

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End Notes:

Not really sure if Arthur can be referred to as 'England' during this time period. Any corrections would be greatly appreciated.

Shakespeare reference ahoy.


	2. Chapter 2: In Liberty

-Author's Notes-

Please see Part 1 for disclaimer.

I really have very little to say about the American Civil War. Except that Abe's speech really does kick some serious ass.

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Civil War, Civil Sin

_Part 2: In Liberty_

When Arthur talked about his civil war, he spoke of it with almost fondness. His voice seemed to suddenly transform into a thing of guttered refinement and romance, a mixture of terror and beauty. Alfred would beg Arthur to tell him of the War of Roses, loved to picture gallant knights and lords toppling king after king, dashing in to fight for principle and chivalry, setting the foundations for the legendary and mesmerizing Tudor line.

Arthur would initially feign reluctance, but after a few minutes of Alfred's pleas the older man would give in with a threadbare sigh. But as soon as Arthur started reciting, his eyes would begin to shine with a fierce light Alfred rarely saw in the other man. He would gesture animatedly, reenacting battle after battle time and time again until Alfred could almost quote the brave deeds and heroic tales along with him. Alfred loved listening to Arthur's stories.

Then there was that unpleasant but necessary business in 1776, and Alfred no longer wanted to listen to Arthur's stories. Even thirty some years later, when he was inexplicably fighting the other man again, Alfred easily pushed aside thoughts of knights and sieges and pulled himself into the present – into his new world of canons, fire, and stars blazing through even the thickest smoke.

But now things were different. Alfred could feel himself splitting, could feel his once unified mind dividing itself, could see his people unraveling at the seams. He heard their voices clamoring for attention, rising in anger as his new boss won the vote of the populace, felt their resentment. They started to call him different names.

One morning he woke to find himself dressed in blue. Closed his eyes, he was decked in grey. For two years he heard the voice of his leader, the voice of his enemy, shouting orders in his ear. For two years he felt his own body betray itself, felt the pain of hundreds of his people tearing into each other and into him. Rending, screeching, possessed by ardent fervor and terror and the belief that whatever ideal they held dear was what he, America, truly embodied.

Now Alfred stood, worn and haggard, not even a century old, on a field that four and a half months ago had been nothing short of a nightmare. He watched his sometimes leader sometimes enemy slowly rise from his chair, the tall man's body looking as ravaged as his own. Alfred heard the man clear his throat, heard him whisper an inaudible prayer, before he finally spoke. His voice was clear and calm, unhurried and unfettered. Alfred closed his eyes, and felt the words wash over him, felt the power behind them sustain him. He though of his old friends who had long disappeared, those four score and seven years ago. He thought of Francis, Matthew, and Antonio. He thought of laughter, unity, betrayal, despair and hope. He thought of everything he had fought to gain, and all that he had struggled to leave behind.

He thought of Arthur.

It wasn't until the voice stopped altogether too soon that Alfred opened his eyes again.

He was back on the field littered with thousands of dead. Alfred breathed in the blood misted air, coughing slightly as the motion strained a broken rib. He raised his eyes and forced himself to look at what he had created. Straightened his back to shoulder the burden he had inherited. His world was no longer one of stories of knights and castles.

"You're such a fucking liar, Arthur," Alfred muttered under his breath.

Taking up rifle in hand, he slowly staggered off the field, the sounds of resolution ringing in his ears.

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End Notes:

Next up will hopefully be Antonio's war. Once I get my ass in gear and figure out how to mince my way around sensitive subjects, that is.


	3. Chapter 3: Guernica

-Author's Notes-

Please see Part 1 for disclaimer and general warnings.

Boy I sure hope no one takes this seriously…

The next installment of civil war related one shots. For those of you who thought this was going to be all us/uk, sorry to disappoint. Please keep in mind that this work of _fiction_ should not be construed as having a political or social agenda.

WARNING: ENOUGH EMO TO MAKE EVEN FALL OUT BOY CRY SALTY, SALTY TEARS.

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Civil War, Civil Sin

_Part 3: Guernica_

The world was mud. Lovino raced through the forest, dodging puddles full of icy water, the tall trees of his youth reduced to an ashen grey that blended in with the bland world surrounding them. His breath came in sharp gasps as he urged his feet to move faster, faster, praying to any god that would listen with a faith born from desperation.

Three centuries. Three long centuries since he turned his back on this land and calmly separated himself from everything he'd ever known. He returned to his own house, building it up slowly piece by piece from rocky foundations to become a thing of independence. He met his brother again, but after over a hundred and fifty years of separation, Lovino could feel the distance between them like a physical presence. They had changed. Both of them.

So Lovino let his brother make his own decisions, content to let himself fade into the background of history. He turned a deaf ear to the affairs of his neighbors, blinded himself to a world that was slowly encroaching on the edges of insanity.

But one day, the wool was wrenched from his eyes. Feliciano had stopped by to visit, managing to tear himself away from his allies for one afternoon. As his younger brother was leaving, Lovino happened to glance at a newspaper Feliciano had inexplicably brought with him. There was a colorful poster sticking out of one side of the paper, and Lovino absentmindedly picked it up and glanced at the bright red surface.

_¡Esto es el fascismo! miseria... destrucción... persecución... y muerte!_

He stared at the leaflet in disbelief, the words burning into his eyes.

_Antonio…_

So he broke his own unspoken vow, and ran back to the country he had forced himself to ignore for three hundred years. And now here he was, weaving his way through the throngs of his former countrymen, dodging gunfire and grenades. A rogue shot glanced off the Italian's shoulder, making him stumble and grit his teeth with pain. But his eyes never strayed from that one lone figure, lying bloody and broken in the very heart of the fighting, mud pooling around his still form.

Lovino's footsteps slowed as he reached the other man, rainwater soaking into his shoes and making him shiver with the cold. He knelt down next to him, and tentatively reached out one pale hand to rest on the other man's shoulder. Lovino felt the Spaniard stir beneath his fingers as the other man haltingly shifted to let his face turn to stare up at the murky sky. Dark emerald eyes flickered to meet the Italian's, and Lovino felt his heart stop, eyes growing wide as he took in the full scope of the older nation's wounds.

"A-Antonio…"

A ghost of recognition flitted across Antonio's eyes, before they returned to gazing blankly at the younger man's face. Lovino let a stream of whispered curses spill past his lips as he reached down to clutch the other man's relatively uninjured hand, drawing it gently up to his chest. When Antonio spoke, his voice fell like a stranger's on Lovino's ears.

"Go home."

A bitterly cold hand reached up to gently stroke his hair, cracked lips parting in a shadow of a smile.

"Go home, Romano. This is no longer your Spain."

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End Notes:

Next up: Reign of Terror.

I wonder if it's possible to depress yourself into a coma…


	4. Chapter 4: Scarlet Citoyen

-Author's Notes-

Please see Part 1 for disclaimer and general warnings.

Oh man. I can't believe I wrote this. How jumping-on-the-bandwagon can you get?

Also sorry if this is totally how you personally would not have pictured France. Don't get me wrong, I love the guy. But a part of me has trouble seeing him as anything other than a hilarious douche.

Warnings: Imagery and… pretty much everything borrowed from the Takarazuka Revue's production of "Rose of Versailles". If you ever have the opportunity to see it, DO. There's enough glitter in that play to cover the state of Texas twice over in a thin sheen of sparkly awesomeness.

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Civil War, Civil Sin

_Part 4: Scarlet Citoyen_

Francis looked across the imaginary line and flashed the other man a sunny grin. God damn him but he loved seeing the Austrian's normal composure ripped to bits. The blonde stood back while his boss' representative and Austria's representative finished bartering or haggling or whatever it was they were doing that was taking up more of his time, and yawned, the quiet, still air of the forest making him drowsy. Suddenly, his side's man waved him over.

Francis strode up to the border's edge and saluted Austria. "Good of you to show up," he said, silently reveling in the shorter man's obvious discomfort. "I assume the deal has been squared away? Or did we manage to get another princess thrown in the lot?"

"Enough of this," snapped Austria, pulling off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I tire of your constant frivolity." From behind the Austrian, two very blue eyes peaked around his thin waist to fixate on Francis' tall figure.

Francis noticed and his smile brightened even more. He bent down slightly, holding one hand up in greeting. "And you must be the little princess. How nice to finally meet you."

The girl started, and quickly turned to bury her head in Austria's side again. The brown haired man gave another one of his stifled sighs before gently prying himself out of her vice-like grip. "Now my dear," he said, reaching down to smooth her hair away from her face as she gazed up at him with fear stricken eyes. "You promised me you would be brave."

The girl's bottom lip trembled slightly as she spoke. "Uncle Roderich… I-I want to be brave, but…" she clasped his hand tightly, almost pleading with him. "But I'm frightened…"

"Don't worry," Austria said, planting a gentle kiss on the top of her head, "I promise France will take good care of you. And if he doesn't," the shorter man shot Francis a frigid glare, "then he will answer to me personally."

Off to the side, Francis raised one eyebrow at the Austrian's brazen statement, but decided that for once he could afford to be quiet. Anything to hurry these proceedings along

The young girl stared up trustingly at the short man, her hair cascading in long, delicate curls down her back. She gave one quick nod of assent, before squaring her shoulders and finally taking her first few hesitant steps into her new house.

Francis watched several ladies in waiting drag her off to a small tent before he turned to Austria.

"My, my. So you _can_ sound tough when you try, little Roderich."

"Don't patronize me," said Austria, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. "I meant every word. Belittling my convictions will get you nowhere."

Francis waved one hand dismissively, "I'm sure. Come now though, what's the worst that could happen? She'll be queen and get to eat lots of cakes and wear queen-like things and that will be that. You always worry far too much than can be good for a man."

"I just fear for her, being thrust into such…opulence," the Austrian said, his face darkening at the thought.

"Good sir, I haven't the foggiest idea what you mean," said Francis, throwing Austria a flippant, roguish smile as he examined one painstakingly manicured hand. He suddenly made to leave, growing tired of the conversation, but a gloved hand reached across the invisible line that separated them and grabbed his arm. Francis turned to glance inquisitively at the other man. Austria's jaw was set, his eyes locked firmly on the blonde's face.

"Promise me."

Francis raised one aristocratic eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"Promise me," Roderich's voice took on a pleading tone, "Promise me you'll care for her as if she were your own."

Francis stared at the other man, before giving a slow nod.

"I promise."

****

"Francis."

His queen's voice sounded soft and distant as it reverberated against the stone surrounding them.

Francis turned, stifling a sigh before walking up the few steps that separated him from the young queen.

"Now my dear," he said, reaching down to smooth her hair away from her neck as she gazed across the crowd with an unreadable expression on her face. "You promised me you would be brave."

Her voice trembled slightly as she spoke, "Francis…I-I want to be brave, but…"

"Don't worry," Francis said, planting a gentle kiss on the top of her head. "I promised I'd take good care of you."

She gazed up trustingly at him, reaching out to stroke one side of his face with long, pale fingers, her eyes dark with unshed tears. Francis just smiled serenely down at her, letting her hand slip slowly from his grasp as she gracefully turned to ascend the last few steps. He watched her carry herself with the regal disposition of a true queen.

He watched her thin mouth curve up in a noble smile that hid any sign of trembling hesitation.

Around them, the crowd held its breath.

The blade crashed down into deafening silence.

Francis stood from his elevated height on the guillotine platform and watched his people slowly begin to stir as if from a dream, to cheer, to cry like they hadn't since that white flag flew on the battlements of the Bastille. They reveled in the joyous horror they had brought about. Those cheers sent shivers down his spine. Shivers from excitement, from fear, he did not know, nor did he care to guess. Francis sighed heavily, scratching at his thinning, stubbly beard.

"Roderich's going to kill me."

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End Notes:

Again, sorry for making Francis so flippant. I just could not get him to cooperate.

Next up: …Shinsengumi, anyone?


	5. Chapter 5: Revolution, Restoration

-Author's Notes-

Please see Part 1 for disclaimer and general warnings.

Kiku's turn this time, and while recent scholarship has stopped calling it the Meiji Revolution and is instead using the nicer-sounding 'Meiji Restoration', when push comes to shove I still view it as a revolution. Granted, Japan's history is full of internal skirmishes (case in point: The Warring States Period), but what was so shocking about the Meiji Revolution was that it occurred after more than two-hundred years of relative peace and ushered in Japan's modern age.

And, of course, because it had the Shinesengumi.

Enjoy.

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**Civil War, Civil Sin**

_Part 5: Revolution, Restoration_

Kiku watched the young man die. Watched him draw in one raspy breath after the next, blood crusted around the corners of his mouth. Disease was eating away at the man, atrophying his muscles, thinning his hair, making eyes turn dull and vacant with pain. The stricken man motioned for water, and Kiku hurried to oblige. Carefully, he poured some lukewarm water into the younger man's parted mouth. The ailing warrior barely managed to swallow a mouthful before placing a hand on Kiku's wrist.

"That is enough, my friend."

Kiku frowned slightly, "Okita-san, you need to drink something."

Okita shook his head weakly, "It's enough, Honda-san." He turned his head to stare up at the ceiling, a warm summer breeze wafting into the room, the soft ringing of a wind-chime on the veranda broken by another shattering cough.

Kiku waited until the attack had subsided before reaching forward with his sleeve to tenderly wipe the blood from the young man's chin. Okita gave a weak chuckle, "I-if Hijikata-san could see me like this, he would make me commit _seppuku_ for sure."

Kiku gave a fond smile, "I do not believe so. He was always rather soft on you."

Okita's dark eyes flickered to the side, staring out into the garden. "That cat is back again," he muttered.

"Is the cat a problem?"

"He kills my songbirds," Okita said, closing his eyes, sleep overtaking the weary man.

Kiku waited until the ragged breathing steadied, before picking up the bowl of water, rising to his feet and walking steadily to the back rooms of the mansion. He set the bowl down next to the hearth, glancing at it.

There was blood in the water.

Kiku turned his gaze away. The wind-chime rang.

There were some things he would never understand.

******

"The Ikedaya incident?"

Kiku smiled bitterly, "How could I forget."

Okita gave a feeble laugh, "Our moment of glory. Remember when I cut that Choshu man down?"

"The room exploded in pandemonium," Kiku said softly, "The lights were snuffed out."

"We ran outside," Okita said animatedly, his feverish eyes shining. "Vice-Commander Hijikata was waiting, the demon's grin on his face. We slaughtered them."

Kiku gazed down at the bed-ridden man. "For the first time, you coughed blood."

Okita grew quiet again, shifting slightly underneath the thick covers. "How… how is Hijikata?" he asked, a note of longing in his raspy voice.

"He has retreated to Osaka," said Kiku, wringing out a cloth to lay it gently on the young man's forehead. "Kondo is there as well. They plan to fight."

Okita closed his eyes in pain. "I should be there."

"You cannot expect to-"

"I should be there!" Okita yelled, sitting up in a burst of frustrated anger. He quickly collapsed, crushing one of his arms against his ribs as cough after cough racked his thin frame. Blood was dripping from between his fingers as he covered his mouth with his hand. Slowly, slowly, the attack subsided. Okita fell back on his bed, letting the blood-stained hand fall to his side, still hugging his chest with his arm.

A soft noise on the veranda caught Kiku's attention, and he stood up to walk towards the open aired room. He halted in the doorway, glancing down at the wooden floor. A small thrush was lying on the polished surface, its small body torn to shreds. One dead eye gazed up at Kiku, forever fixed in a blank stare. Kiku looked over his shoulder at Okita. The stricken man had thrown off the covers, his back arched in pain.

Kiku bent down to pick up the thrush, cradling the broken body in his hands.

The cat's loud yowl sounded in the stagnant air.

Kiku crushed the thing in his hand.

******

"Where is Hijikata?"

"Okita-san, you need to rest. You-"

"Where is he?!"

Kiku placed one restraining hand on the young man's shoulder, forcing him to lie still once more. "You must remain calm, Captain. You can do nothing to help them."

Okita let out a frustrated sob, "Honda-san, please, you have to let me-"

"I cannot let you." Kiku's dark eyes were shadowed, and he moved one hand to cover Okita's eyes. "It would kill him."

Tears streamed down the young man's face as he broke. "Honda-san," he choked out, "I don't want to die."

Kiku smiled sadly, stroking the other man's thinning hair. "If he heard you talking like that, he would kill you himself."

"That would be better than… than this," Okita sobbed, fists clenching in frustrated anger, furiously pushing aside Kiku's hand with as much force as his weakened body could muster. "This… this fading! Wasting into nothingness!"

"We are all afraid to die, Okita-san."

Okita laughed bitterly, "Oh no, Honda-san. Not all of us." He turned to gaze at Kiku with eyes dark with sickness, "Not you."

Kiku said nothing, letting his head fall forward slightly, bangs obscuring his face.

A soft meow came drifting into the room from the garden. Both men looked up to see the cat perched on the edge of the veranda, the twisted body of a dying thrush flailing weakly next to it. Okita's hands clenched, burying themselves in the bed clothes.

A moment later, he grabbed his sword from the bedside and in a flash was out on the veranda. With barely a sound he quickly drew his sword, slashing through the humid air, the edge of the weapon biting deep into the wooden floor.

The cat let out a startled hiss, and fled, leaving behind the injured thrush. Okita watched the fleeing animal with dull eyes, before crumpling to his knees, falling to lie next to his sword still buried in the floor.

"Okita-san!" Kiku rushed to the young man's side. He reached out, supporting the stricken man with steady arms. He sighed in exasperation, "You mustn't exert yourself, Captain. Now please, let me take care of this." He helped Okita stagger to his feet, almost dragging the young man back towards his sick bed.

"It doesn't matter anymore."

Kiku paused, not even sure the other man had truly spoken. "Okita…san?"

"It doesn't matter," Okita said, his voice faint and lifeless. "I can't even kill a damn cat."

Kiku said nothing, lowering the young man to fall back into bed, drawing the bed clothes up to cover his sunken chest. Okita's breathing finally settled, and Kiku rose to his feet, heading back out onto the veranda where Okita's sword still stood, the point entrenched in the polished surface. He grasped the hilt, wrenching it free. He traced the clouded surface, feeling the weight of the weapon rest heavy in his hand. He turned, walking out into the garden, the sword a solid presence at his side.

From the back of the garden, the cat yowled in a mournful voice.

Then, silence.

A startled thrush burst from a plum tree, small wings fluttering in panic.

Kiku turned to track the small songbird with dark eyes before heading back. He placed Okita's sword next to the young man's bed, folding his hands to rest in his lap.

Kiku watched the young man die.

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End Notes:

Spoiler Alter!: … *whisper* Okita dies.

Next: Oh, Ivan. Why are you such a creepster?


	6. Chapter 6: Mirror Mirror

-Author's Notes-

Please see Part 1 for disclaimer and general warnings.

I know very little about Russian history, except for the Russo-Japanese war. So this was very enlightening to research. And by enlightening, I of course mean 'depressing as fuck'.

Again, no political or social agenda. Just fiction. Bad fiction. To be honest, this is probably my least favorite chapter, so it's kind of a shame to have to end with it… *shrug*

Oh well.

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**Civil War, Civil Sin**

_Part Six: Mirror Mirror_

Ivan is tired.

He's been left alone in the palace. All alone to look after the thousands of rooms and windows and doors that go on and on for a really long time and echo forever when you yell or sing. Like a canyon. Or like a concert hall after the last performance of a ballet when all the patrons are gone and it's just him there in the middle of rows of empty seats, and he feels his heart clench with the beauty of what he's seen and he has to take a moment to just. Stand. Still.

While his boss is out Ivan darts around the palace from room to room. He checks for problems, makes sure the servants are taking care of things properly, and stands really, really close to people to make them stop whispering. They never whisper around him. Which is nice. He hates whispering. All hiss and noise and furtive glances that make him feel left out and alone. And Ivan hates being alone. Even more than the whispering.

But Ivan loves Sunday. Everyone makes themselves fancy and scurries off to Church and no one whispers on that day because God doesn't approve of whispering _or_ of secrets which is what whispering really is.

Sundays are quiet. No work, no play. Only relaxing and the sound of hymns.

But this Sunday, something is different. Ivan is tired, his head pounding like it's inside a clock that chimes noon every three minutes – ringing ringing ringing and making him feel sick. He tries to distract himself by building a new dollhouse for the children to play with the next time they visit, but he can't concentrate. Something worries at him, makes him glue the pieces together wrong and split them in two until finally he gives up and shoves the whole thing behind an elegant brocade couch so he won't have to look at the twisted mess anymore.

Ivan walks down the hallway, ghosting his hands over the crystal windows, pale violet eyes darting to glance between the panes at the bleak winter sky. He pauses, pressing his face against the glass. There are people there. Outside in the snow. Ivan turns and runs down the stairs, his scarf buffeting around him as he pushes open the doors, letting in the bitter winter air. He races across the palace square to where his men are all lined up like little toy soldiers in neat ordered rows so that if you struck one they'd all fall down two three four one after the other like pins. On the other side of the field there are people standing in not rows. They're clustered together singing hymns. Just like any other Sunday.

Ivan slows as he reaches the line of men, tapping one of them on the shoulder. The young guard whirls around in a panic, his grip on his gun far too tight. Ivan smiles like he always does when he's unsure or unsettled.

"Hello," Ivan says.

The young man stares back. He swallows heavily. "H-hello?"

"Yes. Hello. What's going on? Is there some special Sunday service?" Ivan stands on his tip toes to peer over the wall of men at his people. He notices one very tall man with pale hair standing at the front of the line, but another person moves to obscure his vision before he can get a better look. The kid next to him is chattering away at a mile a minute, tongue loosened by fear, and Ivan decides that since he did ask the question, it's only polite to listen. So he does, lowering himself back to rest on his heels, fiddling with his scarf.

"-and they keep _singing_ and wanting to see the Tsar and they're everywhere over the city and-"

"My boss isn't here," Ivan says, idly scratching at an itch on his nose. "He's gone away. I'm keeping house."

The young man nods, clutching his rifle. "W-we know," he stammers, looking down the line of uneasy men with trepidation. "We were hoping… you would tell us what to do."

Ivan blinks. "Me?"

"Please…" the kid swallows again, the white around his eyes too bright, and turns to fall back in line. The rest of the men shuffle anxiously, and even Ivan can feel the tension in the air. So he waves his men aside and steps to the front of the line.

He stares across at the faces, trying to study them. Ivan doesn't usually like to look at faces. They distort themselves in ways that let people use them like words to tell other people things. But they're not words. So how can they mean something? Ivan has a hard time recognizing these distortions. Happy. Sad. Annoyed. Lustful. A slight narrowing of eyes, of lips, head tilted to the side, all the tiny details that have taken Ivan an eternity to even begin recognizing. Sometimes he feels a flicker of envy at how easy it is for the others to read them, to respond to them.

But Ivan knows a few tricks now. He looks at the face closest to him. It's singing a hymn, but it has sweat running down its forehead. Its eyes are wide as it stares across the snow field at the soldiers, its skin devoid of color. He knows what this group of distortions means. Fear. His violet eyes flicker to the next. Also fear. Then there's three more fears, followed by an angry, two sads, one benevolent and then Ivan stops. He stops, because he knows that next face. Not knows it like he can read it. But knows it like he's seen it somewhere before. And Ivan struggles to place that face, and ignores how loud the groups on either side have become as they start shouting.

And then the body attached to the face that he knows takes a step forward, and Ivan makes a puzzled noise because he remembers why he knows that face. He sees it every morning in the window panes as he makes his rounds through the palace.

Its his. His own. But… but not. Because this other him's violet eyes are bright with fire and it's mouth is contorted in a righteous snarl as it yells. It doesn't avoid looking at other people with its broad shoulders thrown back and it looks like _its_ the one his boss should be obeying rather than the other way around.

And suddenly its like the sound has been turned on again and Ivan can hear what the other him is yelling. And it's yelling at _him_ as it makes its way across the span of white separating them.

"Ivan!"

Ivan jumps slightly as shots ring out from behind him up into the air. The people on the other side make loud scared noises and shift like a flock of birds moving en masse. The Ivan walking across the snow patch whirls around, his violet eyes sick with worry as he yells, "Father! Keep them calm!" and the man with the benevolent face nods and makes the people begin marching again slowly away from the field even through the panic.

The other him moves quickly, and suddenly it's in front of Ivan. When it looks straight across at him, he can read contempt in its features. It opens its mouth and speaks.

"Ivan."

The world grows suddenly still. Snow flies through the air, suspended immobile like tiny feathers. A man has lost his hat, and it's fallen to the ground, about to be trod upon by anxious feet. A woman is crying. Ivan notices these things with detached amazement as he focuses his attention again on the other him.

"Yes. Hello," he replies. Because that's what you're supposed to do when someone says your name, regardless of whether or not the world has inexplicably frozen around you.

"Call them back," other Ivan says, hands clenched at its sides. "Call them back before something irrevocable happens."

Ivan ignores the demand. "Who are you?" he asks instead, moving his arms slightly to see if the reflection mimics him. When it fails to, Ivan furrows his brow in puzzlement. "So you aren't a mirror then…"

"You know who I am," other Ivan says wearily. "We've been together for a long time. But our boss refuses to listen. One of us had to go and take charge and get our priorities in order. Our people, Ivan. _Our people_ are suffering and you and our boss sit by and do nothing while they scream."

Ivan feels something twist in his gut as he watches himself say these things. He claps his hands over his ears to keep from listening, but the other him reaches out and tears them away as it yells. "This is who you really are! Stop clinging to who you were and think about who you should become! About what's best for them!"

"My boss…" Ivan fiddles with his scarf, "my boss… is a good man…"

The other Ivan slowly lets go of his wrists. "Maybe." It sighs. "Or maybe that's just how history will remember him. Either way… we cannot fight like this."

Ivan feels his brow furrow in confusion. "Then why don't you come back? The palace is big enough for both of us."

It turns away. "Because an idea has been planted in these people," the other Ivan says.

The world is slowly starting to speed up again, the snow falls to rest gently on the frozen earth, the sound of footsteps swells like a record gradually gaining speed.

"Once planted, it grows. To fester. To harvest. Whatever history chooses to do with it."

Ivan looks up. The other one of him is holding out a rifle towards him. It smiles bitterly.

"But not today."

The world explodes into motion. People scream, bullets fly, and Ivan looks down. His body is crumpled on the ground, a pool of blood staining the white snow, glassy violet eyes staring up, not blinking even as snow alights upon them.

Ivan drops the rifle and swallows. He looks up at the faces of his people. He can read them now. Can read all of them without even having to think about it. Ivan can smell the blood in the air, the fear that stems from both sides to smother the palace grounds, makes the air thick with it. He closes his eyes, and smiles, feeling his people's voice growing within him.

He is Russia.

His eyes open, and he shoulders his rifle.

For now.

For history.

The doors to the palace close with a flurry of snow.

---------

End Notes:

This was a struggle to write, mainly because I had to try and find a way to mesh the two very opposing views of Ivan both the canon and fandom presents us with. I ended up just throwing in the towel and splitting them. *laughs* If 'people' Ivan seems really OOC, that's because… he is. Ha…

This chapter will probably be the last. For now, at least. Thanks so much for reading.


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